Waxing Poetic on Brown Rice and Noodles--Tales of Restless Mommy

You know when you've been sick but you're starting to get hungry again? Only nothing sounds remotely appetizing because it all reminds you that you just got over a wicked bout of the hurlies? That's where I'm at today. Even Hudson's cupcakes look revolting. I'm home bound again since Scout ran a fever all night, and I really feel like the three day post-puke mark (so gross--I'm sorry. I have no shame.) should be a point where I can sit down to a nice cup of coffee or a plate of nachos. Instead everything sounds disgusting. I had noodles for dinner last night, and I'm whipping up a nice bag of brown rice for lunch today. Yum.

The house still looks like a train derailed inside it. The laundry boggles my mind every day, but I know I've more than covered that topic on this forum. I really want to complete at least one task today so that I can feel like I accomplished something in my four-day absence from work. Wouldn't it be nice if we all headed off to where we need to be in the morning and left a clean, shiny house behind? Ahhh...allow me to daydream for a moment. Instead I'm typing away at this computer because I have motherhood induced ADD and a pipe dream to become a writer. Maybe it's the rain outside. It gets me all jumpy. Time to wrap this up and organize some Legos.

I'm Just Along for the Ride

This afternoon marked a pinnacle in my latest adventure in motherhood. I have officially reached the point where I can laugh and joke about the series of events over the past five days. This milestone is a big deal because I'm quickly learning to laugh at my life as it's happening rather than when I'm looking back on it. Last Friday we began a fun ride when Camden woke up in the wee hours of the morning vomiting. He later tested positive for strep throat at the pediatrician's office, leaving his doctor hopeful that the hurling was from the strep.

Well, that diagnosis was contradicted on Sunday when Lawson ralphed in the van on the way to get Hudson's birthday gift. We pulled over and dashed into Rite Aid to get wipes, Lysol, paper towels, and Febreeze. Jason started feeling queasy at that point, so while he fought back the hurlies, I dismantled Lawson's seat and proceeded to scrub and disinfect for the next 45 minutes. We were almost home when Jason lost his battle.

When I finally got everyone home and got Lawson in the bath, Jason quarantined himself in our bedroom, and I proceeded to get Lawson cleaned up. This little feat involved two more vomiting incidents and an especially fun episode where I got projectile pooed on. Twice. When I finally got the boys settled in, I started feeling queasy myself. Scout apparently didn't get the memo and refused to go to sleep because she couldn't see her daddy. I finally resorted to putting her on the couch with me, but when I woke up at 2:30 a.m., she had migrated into our room and curled up next to Jason. Clearly I knew what I could anticipate with her in the next 48 hours after that.

For most of the duration of my illness, I lingered in what I like to call Puke Purgatory, in which the person remains in a state of disgusting nausea without the relief of throwing up. It reminded me of the five months of debilitating nausea I endured when I was pregnant with Scout--which reminds me that I really need to call that urologist. Anywho...Jason assured me, having thrown up no less than ten times that night himself, that the relief that came with the act was completely overrated.

We spent the whole of yesterday catching fleeting moments of sleep and breaking up fights. Well, Jason got to break up the majority of the fights since I couldn't get out of bed until 2:00 in the afternoon. We woke up optimistic today and started bathing some seriously stinky boys, which is right around the time Scout started throwing up.

Apparently our little sunshine really hates to puke. Every time I held the little barf bowl to her head when she started retching, she shoved it away and whined "I don't want to!" There were many times throughout the day she won the battle of wills with the barfies. She would gag and then declare "I'm okay."

At 3:25, I took a chance and loaded her in the car to go get the kids. She hadn't thrown up in a few hours, and very few people have room for three extra kids (who are all still in boosters) in their mommy mobiles. I got her in the car smoothly, but when I turned the key in the ignition, I heard the increasingly familiar click of a dead battery. Epic. I put in a call to the school to have the boys sent to the front office so that I could wait for my rocking mommy friend Margie to come over and let me borrow a little juice from her battery. Let me just tell you as a side note that I can now jump a battery in less than two minutes without any input from my husband or father. And it's not my alternator; it's a crappy Wal Mart battery that is reading a marginal charge. Clearly we need to get that resolved as soon as possible. But I digress.

The moment I put my car in park at the boys' school, Scout projectile vomited Gatorade all over herself and her car seat. I didn't even miss a beat during Round 2 of "Let's Throw up in Mommy's Van" and simply wiped her down and stripped her. Kudos to the school secretary, who walked my boys out to the bus lane to load up in the van when I called back to explain what happened.

Car seat number two is now dismantled, Scout is bathed and sleeping, the kids have finished homework, Camden is reading, Lawson is playing a computer game, and Hudson is the last man standing. Now we wait. What a feat it will be if he escapes this powerful cootie germ that is taking down Jones family members one by one. If he wakes up hurling tomorrow, it will be the first time all six family members (plus my friend Meghan's son) have been taken out in one fell swoop. Tonight I'll work on birthday cupcakes for Hudsy, who has offered up little complaint despite having had the lamest sixth birthday ever. If he hasn't thrown up by Thursday (the 48 hour mark since Scout got sick), then I hope I feel well enough to eat one of his cupcakes to celebrate.    

That Natalie Merchant song "These are the Days" keeps playing over and over in my head because despite all the throw up and poop shoots, these are the days. I figured out a long time ago (and relearned it last summer when we had our lice epidemic) that this is the good stuff that you'll laugh about later. When Jason and I are surrounded at Christmas by our four grown kids and their own families, I hope we laugh till we cry telling stories like these. I hope my own children experience these same challenges one day because this is the good stuff. I mean, it's nasty stuff, but it's still good.

Hudson Takes on the World

Today Hudson is six years old. Many of you who have followed my blog since its inception have likely read anxious posts detailing my agonizing decision to take him out of one pre-k program and place him in another and my worries over his going to kindergarten. Hudson is the least adaptable of all of my children. He is noticeably more introverted than his brother Camden and more anxious than his brother Lawson. Until last year, he had great difficulty making strong social connections. When we moved here, he cried for months over missing his one acquaintance from preschool, a child whose last name I never even learned.

I credit WIPP a great deal for changing Hudson's life and building his confidence level. He made his first friend, Dodge, who to this day still tops his list of besties, and thrived in the safe environment of Julie Reese and Lindy Horton's classroom. Last spring at kindergarten orientation, all the progress he made evaporated when he panicked and ran when the kids were divided into different groups and sent with individual teachers. He knew no one, and I saw his old anxieties surge to the surface. I had to chase down Camden's kindergarten teacher and plea with her to take Hudson into her group. He was familiar with her, so she was the only teacher he would agree to walk with.

I was very blessed that Hudson was placed in Mrs. Sheppard's (Camden's former teacher) room and even more blessed that Dodge ended up in the same class. Hudson struggled at first, earning straight faces and two frowny faces as he adjusted to the schedules and rules of class. Eventually I began to receive positive feedback from Mrs. Sheppard, and Hudson began talking about other classmates besides Dodge.

One afternoon he came home and announced he made a new friend. According to Hudson, the little boy didn't have a friend in class, and Hudson felt like it was important for him to become his first friend. They play together often now. When another boy was moved into his class a month into the school year, Hudson was wary because this little man had long been friends with Dodge. The first day was disappointing to Hudson because he felt like the new boy wasn't interested in being his friend, but each day got a little better. Soon Hudson considered Dodge's friend his friend as well.

When a situation arose where this little boy was laughed at by his classmates for a particular behavior, Hudson came home very upset over the incident. He told me very emphatically that he and Dodge did not laugh with the other students, and he was very disappointed in the friends who did. The little boy's mother mentioned the incident to me the following week and expressed how thankful her son was that Hudson not only did not laugh, but was angered by the behavior of those who did. I was so proud to be his mom in that moment.   

I realize I have a child who is sensitive to his environment. He has always been this way. He needs the right situation to feel comfortable and to thrive. He needs the right teacher who can balance attending to his needs and letting him know he is loved without pushing him before he is ready. This year I have realized I also have a child who is sensitive to the needs and feelings of others. He is naturally empathetic, a gift I find extraordinary in children.

My heart melts when I see the progress he has made. He was a child who was once incapable of looking an adult in the eyes and who isolated himself from the group, sometimes giving in to the grief and weight of his separation anxiety. To see him gain confidence and make new social connections is a wonderful blessing. He will always be quirky and different, but I think that makes him even more interesting.

So today I celebrate my complicated, beautiful, introspective, empathetic, giggly, silly six-year-old boy who brightens my life. Happy birthday, Hudson Robert Jones!

Back in the Saddle

Today was our first regular day after the winter break, and we made it through the morning by the skin of our teeth....wait, that's a figure of speech, right? Jason would probably call that one of my "Bowdonisms" in honor of the small town from which half of my family hales. Anyway, our pitfall today was a little complication called mismatched socks. I think I could write and produce a hilarious satire on the Mystery of the Missing Sock. I always start with a complete set of matching pairs, and then somehow, I end up with a white wicker basket full of socks with no mates. The dryer has to be stashing them somewhere in an effort to drive me crazy. I bet that pesky appliance cracks up about it with the washing machine whenever I'm not home.

When I came tearing through the house at 2:45 to change into my T-shirt and tennis shoes before darting back out to Wal Mart and then carpool line, I was dismayed at the state of the house. I'm just going to have to accept that as long as I'm working, the house isn't going to look the way I want it to. I've got a good grip on the dirty laundry right now, but to be honest, the clean laundry waiting to be folded is staging a coup. I'm going to try my best to hold the tiny whitey tighties at bay until Saturday, when I plan to clean and fold like a crazy woman in order to get ready for Hudson's 6th birthday on Sunday.

Tomorrow will be Day 2 of sleep deprivation and two minutes showers before work in an effort to make it out the door on time. I really should be making sandwiches right now, but instead I opted for blogging. I'm sure I'll regret that decision around 8:15 tomorrow morning. Thank goodness it's a short week.

Just a Regular Day

There hasn't been anything extraordinary about the past two days with my family. In some ways I think it's what makes the last two days of Christmas vacation so spectacularly lazy and fun. Yesterday we stayed in our pajamas all day long. I literally had to change out of my pajamas from the night before and change into clean ones to climb into bed.

The kids and Jason played Mario Slugger on the Wii, and I unearthed pictures from the boys' infancy and toddlerhood that we didn't know we had. It was so much fun to look back on the photos and watch videos of baby Lawson and tiny Camden and Hudson. I was humbled by how quickly time has passed and sad to realize it's passing by with Scout just as quickly.

On the other hand, I relished the moments with my big boys, and their growing independence is both exciting and sad. I know it will be hard for me when they don't need me as much, but I sense an underlying trust and friendship that is building between us that is both hilarious and touching. Tonight I sat in the bathroom floor laughing so hard I couldn't breathe because my mini-dork forgot to take his socks off before he stepped in the tub and then laughed so hard at himself he farted. It felt so good to let the opportunity to tell him to pay attention to what he's doing pass and just laugh at his dripping wet sock and look of stunned amusement when he picked his foot up out of the water. The fart was just the icing on the cake as it reverberated off the porcelain tub. Ordinarily I would tell him to use his manners, but not this time. The moment was too fun and too genuine to be marred with lectures. I let myself be a kid for a moment and shared a great moment with my son.

I also cut all three boys' hair tonight, and it gave me a few minutes of solo time with each of them. They are so different in their own ways, but there is a genuine passion and a silly zeal for life that unites them. Hudson insisted I tie the cover I used to protect his neck from stray hair around him like a cape, and he bounded around his room like a superhero when I was done. Lawson danced and giggled his way through every snip and then launched himself back into the tub to wash off the "itchies." Camden fretted I was cutting his hair too short until he caught a glimpse in the mirror to check my handiwork. He didn't even get upset when I nicked him with the scissors, and he went so far as to laugh at the joke I made at my own expense.

Sometimes I can laugh with my boys and take pride in the patience I muster in caring for them. Sometimes the pack mentality takes control of them, and I find myself yelling in frustration to deaf little ears who are too far engrossed in goofy wrestling matches to realize I'm even talking. These are the moments I might have to walk away to be able to deal with the situation the right way or when I try and seek out Scout for a cuddle to remind me they are only little once.

Jason and I go back to work tomorrow, and the kids go back to school on Wednesday. As the week grows increasingly hectic, I hope I can hold onto the perspective I have right now to carry me through the stressful moments. My goal is to slow down and see life through their eyes even when our demanding schedule dictates every moment of our lives. Happy New Year to you all, my cohorts in this adventure we call parenting.    

Challenge Accepted

Wednesday night I tried an exercise class as a method of cross-training for my second half marathon coming up in February. I'm sure many of you are familiar with Spin classes. Some of you shudder at the very mention of the name as you see a brief flash of yourself sweating, gasping for breath, and fighting the urge to throw up---much like the image I see in my own head of myself as I attempted to make it through an hour of pedaling against burning muscles.

If I didn't know the instructor is such a godly woman, I'd swear she was a devil on a Spin bike pedaling furiously to the backdrop of heavy metal debauchery. And yes, I do believe that was a wicked smile on her lips as she bellowed at all of her sweaty subjects to turn it to a 7. What?! Seven?! I'm dying here on a 5, woman! At first I at least went through the motions of pretending to turn the evil little tension knob, but as the class progressed, I shamelessly abandoned my quest of maintaining appearances.

Instead, I concentrated on the sweat that plastered my hair to my face and ran down the length of my back and wondered why there was no trash can in the room in case I lost my battle with cycling-induced nausea.

See, here's the deal. I'll be back at that class every week until I can make it a minute and fifty-eight seconds while pedaling at 100% capacity on a 10. As Barney Stinson would say, "challenge accepted." (How I Met Your Mother fans, I salute you.) That Spin bike will not get the best of me. I will not go down without a fight. I'll be there sweating and hyperventilating each week because that sweat reminds me that I'm strong. It reminds me that my body was made to accomplish things other than having four kids. It reminds me that God put a fire in all of us that is meant to burn bright in many different areas of life once it's lit.

So, I'll be back. I just may bring a trash can with me next time.

Doody! Doody!

Okay, I could spend my energy writing about our holiday trip to Carrollton, which was simultaneously a huge blessing and a huge source of stress, but instead I'm opting to start the post Christmas blogging season with a funny little glimpse into the mind of a 22-month-old kid just trying to figure things out.

Before you read on, here is my disclaimer. IF YOU DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN OR ARE EASILY GROSSED OUT BY DISCUSSIONS OF BODILY FUNCTIONS (I'm talking to you, Meghan), STOP READING NOW. If you like a good laugh or a frank discussion on the challenges of potty training, read on. Please forgive my Caddyshack reference in the title, too. I couldn't resist.

A few weeks ago, our daughter pooped on her little tiny toilet thanks to the bribe  promise of chocolate. What Jason and I were unprepared for was her reaction--sheer terror and horror when she saw her deposit (see, I can discuss this without being terribly crass). We've been trying to figure out the problem since and have tossed around numerous theories that include everything from her being afraid of a frog shaped tiny toilet to deeper Freudian musings on the anal stage of development.

We see that she's getting ready to potty train. She loathes being wet and as a result is constantly taking off her Pull Up and leaving it in random places. Who doesn't like a good scavenger hunt for a Pull Up with an occasional bonus of stepping in a puddle of pee? She also informs us when a number two is brewing and frets about it until she completes the job. (Who does number two work for?) What puzzles us is her absolute refusal to set foot near her potty to do any business other than reading a good book or taking a load off after playing.

This morning I think I found my answer. My daughter is scared of turds. I don't know how else to say it. She told me it was coming, so I hurried to bathe her. I left the room to go grab her potty, and I heard a whine that led to a shriek of terror. I dashed back into the room to see her scrambling from one end of the tub to the next trying to escape the floater that was chasing her. I pulled the drain and snatched a towel from under the sink while trying to reassure her that all was well.

"It's just poopy, sweetheart. Everyone poops--it's okay."

She was not buying it. As I reached to scoop her up, she backed away one more time with wide-eyed worry as the object of her anxiety inched its way near her. When she was safely nestled in my arms, she looked down at the tub and said "Bye, poopy." I guess every bathtub turd is less frightening when the two of you are not occupying the same space.

So there you have it. My daughter is scared of turds, and I'm at a loss as to how to handle this problem as we get ready to move on to the next stage of her development. Do we personify the little guys and try to make them seem more friendly to her? This method might get confusing once we tell her to wash the poop germs off her hands when she's done. Do we come up with a little story about how all turds are just looking for a drain to make it back to the ocean/sewer? She is a big fan of Finding Nemo.

We could go very technical and explain the digestive process. This route is what we took with the boys, who in turn made me read the part about how excess food turns into poopy and is pushed out through the rectum OVER and OVER and OVER. I'm sure it will come to us, and I'll be a bit saddened to put potty training behind us for the last time, hopefully without completely traumatizing our daughter. These are the days.

P.S. Honey, I swear one day I'll make a decent living at this writing gig, and all of your shame and embarrassment will be worth it. Don't stop believing, dude.

Here Ya' Go, Santa! Have My Entire Paycheck

I have sticker shock from the layaway receipt at Walmart. Rollback, my tail. Sure, clearly Walmart usually has the lowest prices, but isn't there anyone who can help a gal with four little kids who are still mastering the concept of greed versus humility? My seven-year-old is really starting to grasp the art of giving, but the other three are still little capitalists.

If we were better planners or had extra income we could tuck away each month, we wouldn't be caught looking like deer in headlights the second week of December. Huh? What? Christmas came again this year? What a surprise! I did not see that one coming. Yep, that's me. To borrow a favorite line from Elf, "That's shocking."

Jason and I are still not completely sure of the details of Santa's spread. Gone are the days when we can lay out an arsenal of inexpensive little gifts and see their eyes light up. I'm relishing this Christmas with Scout because it's only a matter of time till she puts "iPad" down on her wish list (which, by the way, I had a pre-k student do). The boys did beg me to select a child from the Angel Tree at the Y, so deep down, I know the lessons life has taught us since we moved here are not completely lost. Good luck shopping, all you fellow Christmas elves! May the force (and a good deal) be with you.

My Kid Can Get Your Kid to Pee on Furniture...and My Other Kid Will Tattle on Him

Last Saturday, my rockstar friend Cindy invited me and three out of my four kids to eat dinner at her house. The plan was to let the kids play and to enjoy some much needed and hard to come by time hanging out with a good girlfriend. God bless her husband, who not only cooked burgers and hotdogs, but also endured a noisy dinner that involved getting up multiple times and chewing our food to the backdrop of fart jokes and fake burps.

After dinner we migrated to the backyard, where a fire pit sat popping and waiting for eager little ones to roast marshmallows. When the kids emptied the first bag and retreated inside to play, the grown ups broke out a second bag along with a pack of graham crackers and the largest chocolate bar I've ever laid eyes upon. I was bulldozing my way through my third s'more when Lawson burst through the screen door and declared his friend had peed on the couch.

What?! As the Pre-K teacher of Cindy's son, this little story seemed highly unlikely. Cindy's husband went upstairs to investigate, and I warily did a mental checklist of which Jones boy might have inspired this new development. When her husband returned, he detailed pee puddles on their couch and chair upstairs. When we asked in shocked voices (well, mine was really mock shock because I had already braced myself for what was coming) why he did it, the explanation was simple: Hudson and Lawson told me to do it.

I took the march of shame into the house to call down my little instigators. When I posed the question, "did you tell you friend to pee on the couch?" Lawson looked me squarely in the eyes and said no. Hudson, on the other hand, looked squarely at the spot on the wall above my right shoulder and answered the same way as his brother. Seeing an opening, I admonished Lawson for telling his friend to do such a thing, to which Hudson adamantly responded, "Lawson didn't say anything!"

Lawson was off the hook, so I posed the same question to Hudson. With wide-eyed indignation and a firm hold on his innocence, he declared, "I didn't tell him to pee on the couch! I told him to pee on the stairs!"

Sigh. Not only did my second born child inspire his buddy to do something totally out of character (which by the way is also totally out of character for Hudson), my third son felt it was his civic duty to march downstairs and totally rat him out. Their buddy got a time-out, and my little man will be working on an apology note to his friend this week. I can't help but find humor in the situation, but I know I do so at the risk of undermining the hilarious inappropriate nature of the offense. Needless to say, I will host the next gathering so that any errant urination is at my expense. It's the least I can do.

It's Just Life, and It's a Good One

The holidays so far have been a hodge podge of meaningful moments, stressful disagreements, and sometimes hilarious plans gone awry. We decided to decorate our Christmas tree the Saturday after Thanksgiving, but a delay meant that my blaring of holiday music and menagerie of Christmas ornaments directly conflicted with the Georgia game. The perfect, poignant family afternoon I envisioned in my mind was tarnished by my husband's diverted attention, and after my complaints started escalating toward an argument, our decorating was delayed half an hour as a compromise. He finished the game, I turned the cheesy Christmas music back on, and decorating (translation: my favorite annual walk down Memory Lane) resumed.

I'd like to say from the outside looking in that it was a Norman Rockwell painting waiting to happen, but in all actuality, ornaments were broken, Scout wandered off to roll her baby stroller through the house instead of admiring the tree, and I glued two of my fingers to Camden's favorite homemade ornament in an attempt to salvage it after I dropped and broke it. The chaos was ultimately what gave the day its poignancy, and for a moment, I tried to memorize every detail of the excitement on the boys' faces, the concentration in my husband's eyes as he worked to repair his Lincoln Memorial ornament, and the swelling love I felt in my heart for my little zoo crew.

Yesterday we set out to see Santa at Bass Pro Shop, but we were once again delayed by a football game (in his defense, he missed the game the weekend before to watch the parade of boats down River Street). We rolled out of the driveway at 4:20 in an attempt to make it to the south side by 5:00. Seriously, we never stood a chance, but we had to show the kids we tried. My gas light came on before we even made it off the island, but I was determined not to stop. At 5:03, we rolled into the parking lot at Bass Pro Shop with only one, very unhappy kid awake.

We formed a plan to see Santa next weekend and compromised by agreeing to take them to Toys R Us. At that point, gas was a critical factor in the equation, so I found the nearest Parker's. Tension was running high, and as the hubs stood waiting at the pump, I frantically dug for my wallet--which of course was sitting on the kitchen counter back on Wilmington Island. Jason, who almost never leaves home without his wallet and his keys, managed to pull out pocket lint when he reached for his.

So, we sat at the gas station coming up with a third plan with our new goal being simply to find a way out of the south side (no offense, Georgetown friends) and back onto the comforts of our island. Publix! I had a checkbook! As I got out of the car in the Publix parking lot with my checkbook in hand, it suddenly dawned on my I had no I.D. After digging through the car hoping ten bucks would magically materialize from under the seats, I marched determinedly into the store and told a haphazard, funny tale to the kind gentleman behind the counter, who promptly laughed, took pity on me, and let me cash a check for twenty bucks.

As I pulled out of the parking lot in triumph and prepared to head back to the gas station, I hit the cart return with my van. I could only dissolve into giggles at that point, though Jason found it far less entertaining. The one thing I've learned in five years of driving a mama mobile is to let the vanity fly out the window. It's a kid carting machine, and it serves its purpose well. That cart return never stood a chance against my old girl, and she emerged with nary a scratch.

Our life is a series of perfect mishaps and unexpectedly touching moments of chaos. I often wonder if Jason and I will be bored when our tenure bringing up such extraordinary little creatures is complete and our house is quiet. This blog has given me an opportunity to reflect on what it means to be a family and realize that when you're in it for the long haul, there is no such thing as a wrong turn--just opportunities to learn and grow and laugh at yourselves. This Christmas, the imperfection of my life is what makes it the best kind of life to have.